Pixie Stix!

Remember the Pixie Stix? Not the big, fat, plastic gizmo, but the real ones - the paper wrapped kool-aid type dusty garbage that we used to pour down our throats and gag like rats in the third grade after lunch? Our teachers ran screaming, calling our names and digging through the masses of children to find us in the barrel - the industrial sized and probably industrial left over, open-ended, metal barrel with the brads still in tact? Oh my God, what were those people thinking when they made that stuff?

I think I remember they came in packages, but you could buy them in the big lot, half of the sticks were leaking out - we tried to get them cheaper. Cheaper than what, a penny? We were all up in the clerk's face about it - "Hey, this ones' broken" and he was like "You broke it, you brat!" I remember my sister telling me to break them so she could come back and then try to get them on sale - I did it too, she was bigger than me. Pixie Stix! I found a site for them today and just had to blog about it - but after I started mentioning the sticks to my mom, and she didn't really remember them - it got me thinking. What else did Mom not really pay that much attention to?

The barrel! It was rusty, painted over with lead paint probably, bolted down with unprotected edged bolts to the concrete playground - concrete! The barrels came from somewhere that sold the old equipment to playground administration, but our school bought them from a parent - cheaper that way. They were used metal barrels with the tops cut out, and then filed over (somewhat) and the kids, if they played in them long enough like I did, knew exactly where NOT to put your fingers. Kids today use that wussy plastic stuff - imagine! We were real!

Oh, and we had Atomic Fireballs, the really hot red cinnamon type candy that we dipped in the syrupy cinnamon liquid that we also soaked our toothpicks in. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. Burned your freaking eyes out before it hit your mouth to do the real damage. Atomic Fireballs could be bought for 6 for a dime and sold for a dime each after they had spent the night in the hellish brew! We were rolling in the money - 9 years old and using Pixie Stix to neutralize the burning sensation in our mouths - of course we were hiding out in the barrel!

Our school had a creek too. Not really a part of the property though - but just beyond the imaginary line (no fence in '69) that the principals would sometimes remind you not to cross because the teachers on duty couldn't see you if you did - what an idiot. Four or five times a week my teachers called my mom about that creek - the answer was the same. "Yes, I'll talk to her, but she all but lives in it most of the time, I'm sure she'll be OK. Did she come back to class or is she still there?" Mom knew. That creek had fish, crawdads, tadpoles, dead animal carcases, algae - you can't imagine the fun I had after school - and yes, OK, sometimes during. Most always during lunch, it was a given - creeks and me, well - we got along.

I bought a hundred Pixies at the mall today - Candiopolis - awesome store. They have Now and Laters too, but they've been bastardized - smaller, not as hard - you can actually chew them now without having to suck on them and rub little holes in your tongue - where's the fun in that? Do I make my childhood sound as if it was one big pain after another? Come to think of it, there were trees to fall out of, stones to cut your feet on in the creek and the pond out back behind my house. The Indian burial grounds just past the pasture held a lot of promise for the government, for me it simply provided a new alternative reality - a fantasy of real cowboys, real fighting, real dead bones to be dug up and analyzed.

I had my fair share of skinned up knees, carried snakes and frogs to class on a regular basis and the occasional turtle that simply had to be saved. I know that my early years in the wilderness just going from my house to school provided the foundation and the fun-dation for my desire to rescue wayward tortoises and toads that just happen to have made the mistake of being seen by me as I drive through their neck of the world - they're probably just trying to get across that street and here I come - to the rescue - yeah, right.

Pixie Stix. I remember my brother lacing them with baking soda to make me burp. It worked. Maybe plastic wasn't such a bad idea for that candy after all. Before they used the melting technique on the tops, get this - they folded the paper over with a heavy press! (those were better times.)

Girly Girl!

Man, I'm all girly today! I went to Ross and they had all of their summer skirts on sale - I bought 8. I think 8 is my new favorite number - I see the number 8 everywhere I go, and it sort of looks like a woman's figure - which is what I need. I need a woman's figure - wait, I actually have a woman's figure, but it's the big woman's figure that I have now, sort of like an overstuffed 8 I guess - the loops don't look as symmetrical or something - less waist definition. Anyway, 8 is my new favorite number and it's going to help me be a little more girly too.

I drink 8 ounces of water 8 times a day. (I cheat, I drink 12 ounces 5 times, and then I have a little glass sometime in the middle of the night, which could or could not count for the same day - what do you think?) All I know is I'm going to the bathroom more than 8 times a day and night now -which has to be helping right? I have a big, bright green number 8 plastered on my refrigerator and it stands for so many things: the size I want to be, (don't hate me when I'm beautiful) and the water of course, but there's something else - I can't have more than 8 ounces of meat product a day - and I have to have 8 servings of food that isn't fatty every day, and I gave up fat entirely with ONE exception - the half/half that goes in my coffee. NO ONE is brave enough to try and wrench that out of my hand.

So, girly girly girl - I'm wearing the white, flowy, showy, summer skirt today - I'm sporting the sleeveless (sorry people) blue and brown tanks with short Keds, barely seen socks, and a bunch of product in my hair - probably 8 products because my own girls (I call them girs) decided to spike me out and make me look like a cactus - a pretty cactus, but nevertheless, you could call me Arizona! Did you know they make hair glue/gel in blue and green shades? They do.

The goal today is the focus on the health end of it - work out the ceps, all of them, get a little sun, drink a little protein and be the future Wonder Woman God intended me to be - at least in my head, where I do all sorts of interesting feats - stick around a while and you'll find out I'm all about the alternative reality going on inside my head - beats the paying bills mom, taxi driver, nurse's aide, woman currently clacking at the keyboard.

SWAY ME!

So many people have actually recorded SWAY ME, and they all do such a lovely job, however - and you should know that I'm 100% biased - my daughter Laura's version is the best one out there. Now, I have to preface this by saying that the version that she has recorded was recorded with the - Pussycat Dolls - being in the background. It was one of those Karaoke style CDs without the lead voice - you add your own voice to it, and you have a friend record it on their computer - it just so happens that the friend is a professional mixer, so it sounds awesome.

You can find Laura's SWAY ME at www.faiththedog.net and do a little search on the LEFT side of the screen. You click the link and listen! She's absolutely incredible. I encourage the entire world to take a listen to my daughter - you'll want to sign her up, I'm quite sure of it. OK, enough of the pride thing, but you know what - professionals have called me today just hours after the MP3 file was uploaded, to say they were impressed. Of course they are, who wouldn't be? Laura is so gorgeous, and talented, tall, beautiful - OK, OK...but she is! If I had to say what KIND or TYPE of music Laura usually sings, this would be a great example. She's into Christina, Kelly Clarkson, Shikira, Lindsay Lohan, Evanescense - and the Maroon 5, and she's just great!

Go listen! Go..stop reading, go listen!!!

I SO Did NOT Win the Lottery!

Once again, I didn't win the weekly, or actually the twice-weekly lottery. Oklahoma has the Powerball, and someone convinced me that a portion - however small, goes to the educational fund set up by our state, so I play. Oh, that's not the only reason I play, I mean, I love the kids and everything - want the money to go to them eventually, you know, after the big guys get their cut. There has to be an administrative charge, a penny here, a nickel there, every dollar has to be dissected and depleted before it actually (probably) gets to the Department of Education, but like Christmas - it's the thought that counts. I play to win millions of dollars - simply put.

I don't have a method, I don't have a lucky bodega, or even a lucky numbering system. I do what I can to mix it up and beat the odds two times a week - and I lose, I mean, I contribute $2.00 each time. So, for $4.00 a week, roughly $200+ a year, I stand to become a multimillionaire just like the hundreds of thousands of Oklahomans willing to throw their money out the window with me. I read once that using the same numbers over and over, and going to the same store to buy your tickets over and over, has no bearing whatsoever on the outcome of the game - I believe that. Think this through with me....go to the mind's eye for just a minute, and picture a big rolling cylinder with lots of little white balls in it, 55 to be exact. Every ball has a separate number on it, every ball has the same and equal opportunity to make it to the little suction thingamajig that ultimately decides who will be buying a new house tomorrow! You could force it I suppose with magnets, but there's probably some guy paid specifically to be sure that doesn't happen - often.

I wondered what I would do the one time (hopefully 12 times) I did actually win something other than just another chance at playing again. I even called my church to see if they'd be willing to take the 10% tithe that I know I'd give, because if they weren't going to accept it from me I would have to find another alternative benefactor - I was right, they said they'd take it. That's a good church! I don't like those hypocritical churches that preach against the lottery in the first place, and then accept the winnings - my church's pastor preached his personal convictions, and let the rest fall to us - we choose to interpret what God's feelings are on the lottery. Best to leave that one alone until we're all up there talking to Him at once, after all, I don't think my other sins are any different - they're all covered.

What would I do if I actually won? Freak. I would rather win on a Wednesday so I don't have the entire extra day to worry whether or not someone was going to hang me, shoot me, drill me with their car, or otherwise disable me - making it impossible for me to collect my millions. I want to just simply drive to the commission, park in the spot marked "For Lottery Winners Only" and take a photo really quick like, so no one really sees me going in and out - take the money in check form, direct deposit if they offer it - and just ease on out - ninja style!

I have my plans you know. We all do. What to do with the amount that you end up with after taxes, and after accepting the buy out option, because NO ONE takes the "you-invest-it-for-me" option offered by our government - roughly 1/3 of what's being posted as a winning amount is what I would walk away with. Today that total would be $11,000,000 or so. What would I do with it - well, to be honest - invest. I'm such a bore, I know. But, and I mean this, I would tithe, and I would give to two very deserving charities that I love and cherish - and yes, I'd pay off debts for my family members - not every dang member that ever existed, not the 4th, 5th, and 6th cousins that I've never been introduced to, but you know, the siblings, the parents, the nieces - I have no nephews, my son is the only boy - got that Constitutional Right thing going on for him not to have to join the Army, but it didn't work out for me. My two good friends Jeannie and Niki wouldn't have to worry about much either. They deserve a bucket of money just for putting up with me, although Niki said she'd be thrilled to be able to say she knew a winner - no, Niki - you get a new house doll! You get the works!

I guess the standard purchases would be in order. I'd move to Chicago, live in the penthouse of the Sky55 high rise, order the furniture whenever I dang-well pleased, have it changed when I wanted, and go traveling - why do people say that, "go traveling". Anymore I'm thinking taking a trip across America is about as far as I'd want to venture without my flack jacket, helmet, and revolver anyway - but I'd have a new brightly colored flack jacket, and helmet, and probably a pearl-handled 45!

Alas, all is for naught - I did not win. I'll try again - I'm sure of it. If I win, I'll post a picture with the big cardboard check so you can see how much I'll be paying in taxes - gotta love the Feds.

Pancakes Anytime!

OK, I started something with a few internet groupies of mine when I mentioned that I cook in a big man's shirt. First the guys wanted to know whose shirt I cooked in, and the girls wanted to know how big was big! Please, please - people - this is really more or less a family site. I think I told you all that I've been celibate for far too damn long - the shirt is mine, I bought it at Macy's in anticipation of a day when someone of my choosing would look really really good in it while I cooked pancakes.

I've always been a strong believer in fantasy - it just seems to stop the stress dead in its tracks when I take the time to breathe in a few deep breaths, lay back in a tub full of lavender oiled water, and let the steamy thoughts of my big shirt and that one man just take over the rest of the evening - with pancakes. You can't go wrong with pancakes - anytime, anywhere, anyway - pancakes always seems to get the job done.

The pancake fantasy has been a staple in my journaling for years, so much so that my kids want waffles when I pull out the box to fix breakfast - or they pass entirely, and go straight for the top of the refrigerator where we host all 16 boxes of cereal that seem to never go away - we just replace the nearly eaten boxes with new boxes, and combine some of the almost similar cereals. Oh, but sometimes, just because I'm THAT way, I'll pour 1/2 a box of Frutti Pebbles in with the Kellogg's Froot Loops just because I can - REBEL THAT brats! Ha! It's like wearing two different heights of shoes when you think about it - and I laugh in their faces.

No, in case you wonder, I don't wear my big man's shirt when the kids are home - that's one of the reasons I kicked them out of the house - I love that damn shirt! Makes me smile. It's actually a 2x, and the man I want won't be, but the shirt just flows and it's linen, and it's white, and it's soft, you can really bust a move in a shirt like that - Tom Cruise has absolutely nothing on me when it comes to dancing on the kitchen tiles - seriously, I took belly-dancing for a semester and well, let's just say - yeah!

So, pancakes! When you can't think of anything else in the world to charge up that romantic night, that weekend-isn't-getting-here-fast-enough feeling, or that I-just-want-to-dribble-a-little-syrup-on-you moment - pancakes! A little confection sugar couldn't hurt either! (giggles with her Pyrate smile....thinking, always thinking.) Are those bananas?

Men Should Love Me!

When I think about it, I'm the perfect woman. I really am. If I were a man I would want me. I'd think I was a bit chunky, but I'd be willing to go walking with me, to work it off - I would! I thought about it this morning, and yes, men should fall all over themselves to have me. If any man wanted to be my boyfriend (please don't apply, I'm not actually taking applications at this time) he would have the freedom to go fishing, hunting, golfing, whatever he wanted to do because I'm not into asking him where he's been, where he's going, what's he's doing, and forget about money - I have mine. He can keep his.

Football. Men like football right? Well, I LOVE FOOTBALL. My kids hate the fall because they never see me on the weekends. I'm either at the game, or on the couch staring at the set. I didn't go the distance and get the cable thing where I can see 147 games a week - that's a bit overkill, but I do insist on them leaving me the hell alone when OU takes the field on Saturday, or when Green Bay does on Sunday. OK...seeing that I'm moving to Chicago, I'll have to expand my horizons and love the Bears, but Reuben said I'd go to Hell if I admitted it out loud in Wisconsin. I'll stuff my face with cheese and mutter something incoherent - that makes men smile too!

I do drink a beer when I'm stuffing my face with cheese, and there had better be a few pillows to throw because I'm going to be throwing pillows when I watch a game. Men should love me because I rarely go shopping unless it's at the Home Depot, and then I can't be pulled out easily - sometimes offering me a Starbucks can get the job done. I'm the only one I know smelling the lumber to see how fresh it is. I went to the Home Depot yesterday to have a couple of planks cut and I don't even have a fence right now! I'm going to get one, and they were on sale, and I just hate the smell of a new car - when you can fill the air with pine, do it!

Oh, and men should love me because I cook - not completely naked, but somewhat. I mean, I'm usually wearing a big man's shirt and I dance around the kitchen a lot - do a little dance, wait on the water to boil, add the spaghetti, dance a little more - put on the Buble' (oh wait, men may not like Buble' - SCREW THEM!) That's the me I love - I love the me that says to the world "This is my spaghetti - if I want to put olives and pineapple in it I will" and I do. I rent adventure movies- crank the stereo loudly - and I actually know the difference between a forced out and an RBI - yeah, OK, I just admitted to watching baseball - it's what I do when I'm waiting on football to start - give me a break!

About that application thing - I'm not taking apps because I'm pretty sure I'm still too in love with myself to share me, I'll be over it someday - but it's been a good 8 years, why spoil a good thing?

Rocking Rocket Launchers!

I think I told you that he broke his ankle the other day, but did you know he's in a band? Yes, when he's not killing people on the simulator, drilling his SGT into the soccer field, puggling someone off a beam, or launching that pineapple grenade, my baby boy Reuben is out on the stage, mic in hand, raspy voicing it for the world to cringe at. I couldn't begin to tell you what it is that he's singing about - even if I'm standing 10 feet away from the man, I can't understand a single word spewing out of his mouth. I have to stand at least 10 feet away to keep out of the wet zone, sweat leaps from him after 1 song.

When the kid was 8 months old he was walking - no, running. "DOG" he squealed - "DOG" and he shot straight up in a second from a sitting position - running to the front door, hitting it hard with his forearms just like a lineman - precursor I suppose for his future as an defensive tackle - and he hasn't stopped. At about 13 months old he and I went to a jazz festival and I lost him. Could not find the kid - I was panicked! I'm serious, I was crying, stomping, looking, frantically begging for help - I went to the stage to have the grand master make an announcement. My boy was missing! He was found - quickly - by the band! He was on the side of the stage. He had completely WRAPPED his body around the amplifier/speaker - boom, boom, boom, boom, and OHHHH, how he was smiling! Well, that explains why he never hears me when I call him in to clean his room - and probably explains the love for the ring he gets in his ears when he throws that grenade too!

He grew up too quickly, as they all do, and he joined a few bands as their lead. I won't even be nice about it. The boy can't sing. I didn't say he didn't sing, no, he sings all the time - I remember having to run to the other side of the house, turning on the dishwasher and the garbage disposal to drown out what was coming full blast out of the bathroom. Why the man thinks anyone would be interested is beyond me. He's at least a good entertainer - I'll give him that. When you think about it, he may have something - but I'm not sure I'd pay to hear it, that's all. The CD better be autographed, and it better be in my Christmas stocking, because my hard-earned cash won't be exchanged for what I try to avoid.

Look at the star on his head - always the quintessential American. I had to give him a really bad time and remind him that TEXAS is the Lone Star state - That bandanna was probably burned in effigy! The boy is Sooner born, Sooner bred, and yes, when he dies - the plot closest to the Norman campus is already paid for. I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't already paid for the monument with something like "Damn, I can't see the game from here" written on the stone! One thing about the fact that my boy sings is this: at least he's not drinking when he's singing, and he's not chasing women, he's just up there pounding his head against the wall, body-bumping the guitarist, head-banging the air to the point that even the Army has to question if they made the right decision allowing him to sign - but he's always, and I mean always - unpredictably entertaining - which, I suppose is the point.

God only told us to make a joyful noise - and, well - Reuben does that well.

Little Looney Laura!

She's obviously the BLUE Ranger, she's pointing to it. All of her life, Laura has called herself something - "I'm the Blue Ranger", or "I'm Ariel", today she's 18 and calling herself "Asuka" from some anime show - don't ask me which one, the girl has been into Pokemon, Digimon, if you can't pronounce it, she's into it.

Today the woman (hahaha, she's 18, she's legally old) asked me a question that just made me stare at her a little longer than I normally do. I wanted to say "You're a superhero, you figure it out." This girl looked me straight in the face and said "Mommy, if I use my super power to make the others fall on their faces when I'm on American Idol, is that wrong or is that just using my naturally given talents to further myself?" DAMN! I stood there, stopped completely in my tracks and stared at her. "You're auditioning for American Idol?" I asked? Wow, my little girl.

She does sing actually, in fact, she'll be on the Ozzfest tour this summer singing, but don't expect to see her on the stage. She'll be in the side tent just outside the venue from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. doing the Faith the Dog thing, but I know Laura - she'll be packing that iPod and she'll be doing the dance while she emulates Maroon 5, Christina, Shikira, shaking and moving, singing, and grooving - that's my little girl - my old, old, old, and dare I say FAT little girl? That last part was just a jab because she's looking over my shoulder to see what I'm writing. She saw her picture on my blog and automatically assumed I was writing about her - the nerve. I wish I were FAT too. She's what - 5'8", 134 maybe? Cow! (she just hit me - can she do that? Abuse! Abuse!)

Yes, next time you see the iPod commercial with the long haired shadow throwing herself all over the screen you can think about Laura on the tour bus - poor Ozzy, can you imagine? The man has so much to deal with - he shouldn't have to be subjected to the Blue Ranger in full throttle body-heaving to words he can't even hear - bet he asks her to tour again next year too! She'll be an American Idol by then though - probably have to charge him a bit more than she's getting this time for sitting in a tent with a really cool dog.

Laura should have been cast as Luna Lovegood on the Harry Potter series because she thinks she possesses powers to make objects do whatever she wishs. I read about that sort of power and I studied it for about a minute - freaked me out, so I stopped. I do think it's real though, and I do try to practice it when I meditate. I don't move things, but I try to hone in on people that I want to pray for and get right into their hearts and minds so that I can feel what they're feeling - is that stalking? (Stop staring at me, it was a valid question!)

Sliding Your Life Away!

I did not draw this picture, it was found and used for demonstration purposes, and it works.

It may or may not freak you out to know that there are alternative methods of getting out of burning buildings - the galvanized steel, spiralling slide may not be your first choice - the staircase looks pretty good when you think about a burning hot building and the steel slide's surface heating up with every spinning, twisting, curve - then again, it is enclosed - what am I talking about? Oh, I should have told you up front. I spent five years of my life in a building in downtown Oklahoma City with the distinction of having the ONLY sliding fire escape in the entire Southwest. I think St. Louis has a slide in a building as well - gotta tell you - freakish things happen inside the slide!

The Ramsey Tower was built in the year 1935, right along side the First National Center both vying for the position of being the tallest and first, skyscraper in the city of Oklahoma City. Remember, Oklahoma only became a state in 1907, so to have a few skyscrapers going up only 28 years later - well, that says something - it says we're incredibly slow at more than just giving our employees raises, we also take our time at building them places to work. The Ramsey tower, located at 204 N. Robinson, did win! It finished off just shy of 3400 feet, but add a little spiral thingy-majig and you got the winner! I read a historical article about Mr. Ramsey, he was the architect for the Empire State Building - so he at least had experience. He also cheated a bit, cutting off several rooms, offices, and space that he had originally intended to be attached to the building, but he wanted to win the race - He did it too!

The Ramsey Tower became the Liberty Tower, the City Tower, City National Tower, it was called the Pencil Building for a long time, but now I think it's just City Place - or more locally referred to as the "brownish building just across the street from Leadership Square, the one with the Interurban Restaurant". That was MY building for five years and I loved it. Getting out of it wasn't a problem for me. I took the elevator - my children, however, chose the more entertaining method - they took the slide as often as they could get away with it.

The slide itself is not dangerous - it makes you puke your guts out when you're finished, yes, but it is not dangerous. The slide slopes just so in order to give you the dignity you need upon finishing your 31 story flight, to stand up, brush off the dust from your bum, and exit the pseudo elevator doors that do actually open up onto the ground floor - for everyone to see you! They do see everyone who exits, because they stand around waiting for it. The security rarely watches, they've grown tired of the hassle of writing up everyone who rides the slide - and they can't write you up if you have a valid excuse. We used to tell people to say "I dropped my glasses and had to go after them", or "I lost my dog, have you seen him?" Anything will work as long as you don't stand there with that look of dumbfounded barfy-ness on your face - but if you do lose your cookies on a security guard - you will get written up! (word to the wise, exit to the East, there's a trash can outside the main door.)

While teaching I used to give credit to any of my willing students if they would experience the slide, bring a video back, and let the class watch! I've seen over 50 videos from my own students, and an equal amount from their friends - it's just a great deal of fun to break the law and tape yourself doing it I guess - I always told the kids NOT to rat me out - but to say they lost their glasses, their dog, their homework - and of course to carry that object on their person so they could produce it when questioned. A good sized brown paper bag is good, not only to sit on during the ride -but you know, to catch your guts when you land.

In case you're wondering, it takes about 4 minutes and is over 70 resolutions from top to bottom and yes, you're spinning in the dark, barely catching a glimpse of light from time to time as you pass a floor that may have forgotten to turn out the exit-closet interior light - which you thank GOD for when you see it....I left ours on, but we were on the 28th floor, not much of an answered prayer since it starts just 3 stories above us. There you go - a cheap way to thrill yourself, your lover, your friend, your teacher - the best time of day to do this is after 7 p.m. if you can get in, do the restaurant/bar thing - it's the best excuse...but I warned you about the need for the fast exit. Don't say I didn't.

Have fun! (Oh, and to you Mr. Edward H. Moler - THANK YOU for the 5 years of perfection!)

My Baby Boy Got Broke.

My boy surprises me sometimes. "Hey Mom", he called from the top of the roof, "watch this!" and before I can stop him - he's landed on those glass ankles I unwittingly gave to him at birth. I admit, they weren't mine in the first place, I inherited mine as well - but dang - the boy should have figured it out long before his 14th birthday. That day he broke himself, the month before he broke me when he demonstrated a move the legendary Reggie White had been teaching him - thank you Reggie.

When he played football - which was virtually every waking moment of his life from the time he was 11 to the day he swore into the U.S. Army 9 years later - he broke at least 1 bone a year, usually a small ankle bone, and both of his legs have been cast and wrapped for most of his teen-twenty's life. The kid could take over the world if he could stand up long enough to do it. Honestly, it used to surprise me how a boy his size even balanced on the skinny rails I gave him. We look like thoroughbreds - big butts, long strong necks, (I'd love to say we were both lean and fiery, but at least I'm fiery!) and we have that attitude of a race horse too - all while balancing on spindly little ankles just begging to be taken out from under us.

To be fair to my son, he did not break his ankle this time by playing football. He tackled the commanding officer on the soccer field - and threw the man and himself into the goal, rather than allowing him to make a score for the opposing team. Of course my son realizes that tackling in soccer is NOT the same as tackling in football - but years of training taught him to take out the man with the ball - at all costs. This time, it was an ankle, KP duty for the CO's inconvenience, and about 4 weeks of not getting to play any reindeer games on the range at Ft. Wainwright - poor baby - I asked him if he had to peel the potatoes - how silly of me. The Army doesn't use real potatoes anymore. Well, they're in frozen bags - they're probably real.

This ARMY is not my father's Army I'll tell you that. I called Reu the other day just to talk - forgetting he was enlisted I guess. He text me back a minute or so later to inform me that he was in formation, getting drilled by the SGT and would get back to me. Think about that - he misspelled drilled, but I knew what he was saying. The Army allows cell phones in case they lose a troop! I can hear the P.A. system like the one they had on M.A.S.H. "Be sure and set your cell phones to vibrate only, Col. Willim is due to arrive at 0800 for inspection. Anyone with a ringtone not conducive to the United States Armed Forces will be sent immediately to the barracks for latrine duty." What am I saying - the Army has maids now. Didn't you know? Room service, car service, catering - and all on the shoestring budget our Congress allows!

Maybe the boy can take these next few weeks and improve on his XBox skills. He requested that I send him several Army games and the movie Pride and Prejudice, but that's a Kiera Knightly thing, I'm sure. Get better boy!